Stranger in Ivalice
by hk0
Summary: Stranger in Ivalice: A History of Fran and Assorted Personages. A series of short narratives wherein the character of Fran is developed beyond canon and her relationships, particularly with Balthier, are explored. UPDATE! Presenting: Chapter 6. Faram.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note**

This document will be released in multiple chapters. Many of them will contain spoilers or will contain content that may not make sense to the reader unless they have played Final Fantasy XII. I am particularly interested in criticism concerning how I voice Fran, and represent her thoughts and motivations. This Prologue is an excellent place to start before I get too far into this. I have rated this 'M' because I will touch upon adult themes, and the language can be coarse.

The Prologue takes place 35 years before the events of the main storyline. Each subsequent chapter will contain a separate time reference. They will be self-contained and chronologically ordered. If you were to jump ahead to a later chapter, you might find Fran acting out of character. I hope that by reading these stories in order, your opinion will change on that matter.

**Prologue**

Fran sat in a rattan chair beneath an awning in an outdoor bar. The desert evening fast approached and the wind whips that blasted sand everywhere. Across from her, a Nu Mou of some years is perched upon an extra helping of cushions, so they might converse more naturally.

His name is Izlude. He was quite difficult to track down, for there were no official records at all of Fran's birth. A remarkable occurance if she merely discovered her birthplace, never mind the attending physician. It required nearly three years of on and off searching, research, and interviews... she must have spoken to every nurse and midwife in the entire Rozzarian province of Al Dawhah.

"Here's something you must understand," Izlude began, "your mother was a fighter."

He takes a sip of a dark wine, pausing to choose his words. "Forty years ago we didn't have caesarian section, and our healing magic was not nuanced enough to handle her complications."

Fran furrowed her brow slightly with confusion. "But... internal bleeding was not a fatal injury, not even then."

Izlude sighed. "Childbirth is a natural process. Our magic was, at the time, too primitive to 'correct' it. The white magic had ancient origins and it was not well understood. I did everything I could, you know, to keep her concious. To let her hold Mjrn for a while... to--" He trailed off, and massaged his temples with his free hand. "She wouldn't even take a sedative. A fighter..."

Fran knew he was trying not to cry. Over the years, he mastered the delivery of heartbreaking news with a compassionate, yet unmoved face. It was for the loved ones to emote, and for him to knowingly console. Yet Fran didn't feel moved, not even a bit sad. Instead she felt empty, having gotten to this point, now knowing that her own mother was just as stubborn as she was.

It wasn't where she chose to give birth that contributed to her death. Nor was it the doctor's fault. This Nu Mou knew more Vieran physiology than the eldest Salve-maker in Eryut. _No Jote, it seems she died exactly where she damn well pleased._ At this, thoughts of her own eventual mortality loomed close in her mind, and she decided to change the subject.

"So who was the father?"

This sudden question surprised the Nu Mou, who took another drink and slowly replied, "You mean you managed to find me and yet you don't know?" He studied her for a moment, and then a mischievious grin crept across his face. He wiped away a stray tear from the corner of his eye. "Don't you mean: Who was **my** father? That's really why you're here."

"I did plan on asking you. I have yet to be given a straight answer to that question. Rumor and intrigue. Useless."

"Fran, I wasn't your mother's doctor. I was called in because I was once a personal physician for Duke el-Nawfal, and because I had a specialty in the physiology of multiple races."

A look of confusion, then horror crossed Fran's face. "Multiple..."

"Fran, the late and most honorable el-Nawfal of the House of Margrace is your father. You were raised but a few miles from here, by your older sister if I remember correctly, what was her name?"

"Jote," she answered slowly.

"But I don't imagine you remember any of that, otherwise we wouldn't be sitting here now, would we?"

Fran put up her hands in protest. "Wait. How can that be possible? I uh ... " Fran's speech became colloquial as she tried to concentrate, and remember the time before the Wood. She muttered quietly to herself, "The earliest I remember was a -- a, um -- a ranch, but I thought that was just outside the Golmore in Bancour? Jote said we raised livestock."

"Well you were not yet ten years old." Izlude offered. "And your parents were often away on diplomatic business, so I doubt they took you many places in the province that would leave a distinct impression."

But by now, Fran was frustrated. Especially with Jote. Why would she lie to her? _Did this mean she was ... no, the Gods would forbid it._

"But I couldn't be related to el-Nawfal," she protested, "because then I would be part Hume, right? Look!" She stood up, then raised herself on tiptoe, turned profile, and sat back down again. She relaxed and straightened her fur be-speckled ears for effect.

Izlude's knowing smile returned again and grew wider still. Fran crossed her arms and glared at him, her amber eyes burning holes into his bald head. "Oh I can see, you are most certainly Viera," he chuckled, "Quite. But let me answer your question with another. Why is it you think there are no male Viera?"

Fran blushed, if only for a brief moment, then added: "I've seen them. At the Fertility Rite."

"Did you participate?"

"No... " she trailed off.

"It wouldn't have mattered. Didn't seem to contribute to any blessed events in your village anyway, did it?"

She didn't have to reply. He was telling her what she already knew in her heart. She suspected that other mysterious forces were at work, and that coupling with the odd male their tribe produced was some archaic custom they still practiced ... it horrified her to think they would be encouraged at times to engage in behavior befitting of feybeasts.

"Oh no, I know what you're thinking. But you don't sprout fully formed out of the ground either. The issue is that male Viera are sterile. Actually, they're what we call an abnormal karotype." He could see Fran didn't understand what he meant, so he continued, "...and if you haven't noticed, there aren't any female Nu Mou to speak of either."

Fran leaned forward, and pointed at him. "So what you're trying to say is ... we're the same, just different... sexes." She leaned back in her chair and eyed him carefully. "Is that some kind of pickup line?"

"Ha! No... at least, it never worked. But you must believe me, it's the truth. And I've yet to factor in the Humes in my explanation." Fran put her chin on her hand, her elbow braced by the chair. This conversation had become quite strange, but she considered the time she spent searching for this person, and found renewed patience to withhold judgment. She motioned for him to continue.

"_Ahem_. According to the latest studies by natural philosophers on Ivalian races, Nu Mou, Viera, Humes, and we suspect, the Rebe, are all closely related, if not the same specices. Of particular note, we all have the same number of vertebrae, teeth, and digits. It also seems that these variations developed independently and only continue to exist as separate races because these features cannot be co-expressed."

"Meaning..."

"You don't cross a Hume and Viera and get something in-between. You get one, or the other."

Izlude shifted upon his cushions, and swirled his drink. He continued, "So you know those stories, the same ones I remember you sister telling me, about the girls who left the Wood, who got 'attacked' by vagabonds or what-have-you, then came back under Her Boughs and were in turn _blessed_ by the wood for their new-found humility? Well now I think you can guess what that little euphemism's about." He smiled at his own wry comment.

It was at this point that Fran felt quite ill. She staggered away from Izlude and the bar, and braced herself against an errant palm tree. Between fits of coughing and dry heaving, she moaned epitaths against the gods, her people, Jote, anyone she could think of. She squeezed her eyes closed, tight, until spots appeared swirling like the nausea in her stomach. When she opened them she saw Izlude looking up at her, concerned.

"Fran... hey, are you okay there? I ... I am so sorry. I didn't realize you didn't know about any of that."

But she had some notion. The Veena holing themselves up in the forest greatly troubled her, only she couldn't figure out why. It made sense now; they were trying to enforce a combination of cultural and blood purity. It was not the idea that repulsed her, nor the implications of her deception, but that it was happening right in her midst. That the evidence was right in front of her and she didn't make the mental leap to put the pieces together. That her own sister would lie to her to protect her cult, and to provide consistency among her adherents.

And that after all the significant conversations she had with Viera-Raka, Nu Mou, and the Humes of free places; after all the jabs about family that she dodged; after all the jokes and cryptic comments that flew over her head... she was not liberated by this revelation. Instead she felt an utter fool. There was no way to appropriately address how she felt.

"Move. Or I'm going to vomit all over you."

Izlude hurried away to the bar to get her a glass of water and some napkins just in case.


	2. Das Nebrasgold

**Author's Note**

This chapter takes place 25 years before the events of the main storyline of Final Fantasy XII. Fran is then working with Clan Atma full time, specializing in rare game. This chapter is rated 'M' for adult content and sexual imagery. Porom and Palom are new (old) characters not originally from FFXII, but still Copyright Square-Enix.

**Chapter 1 - Das Nebregold**

By this time, Fran read enough picayune novellas during her years as a caravan rider to know all the common clichés. Countless nautical metaphors describing repetetive motion, slick surfaces, sheets and shirts billowing like sails at full mast. _Hah_. She allowed herself to make a little pun right there. It had become natural to her; pity that her sisters rarely entertained the simple pleasantries of wordplay.

It was also fun to use vulgar words and slang. Take "cock" for instance. It's the first part of "cockatrice", so you can always change the subject towards animal husbandry if anyone raises an eyebrow. "Fuck", "Asshole", "Bloody Cuntrag": all fine expeletives, and what fun they were all fun to volley back and forth while trudging wearily through waist-high weeds where waiting within were wiggling Wildsnakes and Wary Wolves... Gods, she was doing that_ alliteration _thing again. In her head, with no one around to appreciate it.

Except Porom. But she couldn't interrupt him, as he was just getting into the swing of things.

Porom and Palom were the twin wonder mages in Clan Atma. As the token Nu Mou in the bunch, Porom used to joke that with the addition of Fran they were the most race-diverse Clan in all of Ivalice (and this was probably true). She appreciated how hard he tried to make her feel welcome and so they became fast friends. And there was something about Porom specifically that she was drawn towards, but she couldn't understand the root cause. Both brothers had the courage to work in a Hume-dominated field – that might explain her initial attraction. But it couldn't explain her current situation; there was no map that could chart the path their relationship had taken. Perhaps it was more interesting when you didn't try to understand it, perhaps...

She opened her eyes and adjusted her head, just to check that it wasn't some mist trance or Garif peace-pipe, shamanistic vision-quest of a ..._ how long has it been now?_... month-long dream.

No, he was still there. He didn't look nearly so short from her position. She propped herself up on her elbows to get a better look.

"Uh, is there a problem?" He said as he stopped, and brushed an ear back from the front of his face.

"No. I'm just - watching."

He didn't reply, and instead adjusted her thighs, straightening her out on the mat that passed for a bed when on hunt. She closed her eyes as he continued, and imagined each thrust was like a wave of tropical ocean water, lapping over her; when he accidentally hit her cervix, a flash of lightning over the rolling seas. A few more nautical miles, she thought, and the heavens will burst forth - _or something like that_. She opened her eyes again and calmly watched as his cock (she chuckled quietly to herself at the word), as thick as her wrist, appeared and disappeared inside of her in a motion swift yet gentle. Or perhaps he was just getting lucky that the range of his thrust was limited mechanically since he was on his knees, against which she braced her buttocks. Technique or luck, it didn't matter in the end if it felt good.

She imagined she could hear him replying to her thoughts with the Green Word no longer filling her ears. "Is she always this distracted during sex?" No, not the first time. That was more little more than fucking anyway. And not the second time, which might have been called "making love", in that she was concentrating quite hard on getting it right. Even when it became routine, they'd think of sweet little nothings (_such an awkward phrase_) to tell each other that kept them focused.

Tonight... he appeared while she was _diving for pearls_, so she invited him to take over, and he hadn't said two words since. He grunted and moaned a few times but was otherwise quiet; he didn't even ask her to switch positions. Maybe he was tired from tracking that damned rogue Slaven. A shame that all he had to show for it was a nick out of his ear.

She sat up, and crossed her legs behind his back, pulling his head close to her chest. She tried to kiss him on his forehead but found it awkward to reach without scooting around on the mat, so instead she grabbed handfuls of his ears. He looked up at her with eyes that pleaded, "Don't use those as reins." The idea was tempting, but she wanted to see if she could try another tact to get him to lighten up... the whole encounter was animalistic lust epoused with industrial purpose and while it felt _wonderful_ it left her mind distracted.

"Hey, remember what you called me while we were waiting to cross the Nebra?" Fran asked in the best dulcet tone she could manage between increasingly ragged breaths. He didn't reply right away, so she kneaded his ears as if to massage his attention straight out of his head. In the process, she realized something wasn't right with his left ear. She unfurled it and saw that the end had already healed. _That's odd._

She felt him stop, and he screwed up his face at her. _Gods, why did he have to stop?_ "I'm confused," he finally replied, "We never went anywhere today. I was out running messages to clan headquarters, remember? I don't know what you were-"

Fran's heart leapt out of her chest like a mutineer being thrown overboard into cold icy waters.

"YOU CADDISH FUCKING CUNTRAG!"

Fran pulled her legs up over Palom's head and kicked him as hard as she could, square in his shoulders. He made a full somersault as he flew across the tent, landing face down. Fran pulled her legs up to her chest, gripping her knees with clenched hands in frustration and rage at such childish deception and the poor timing of his admission of guilt. _Couldn't he have just waited until after I got off before he answered my question and ruined the experience?_

Polom laughed as he gingerly sat up. "(_snort_) You know, you never said anything. I was just walking by, minding my own business, when you pulled me in here. At first I didn't know what was going on, then I noticed you were here all by your lonesome. So I figured you thought you could replace one brother with the other. I wasn't gonna let you down!" He was still giggling while rubbing his bruised shoulders, quite proud of himself. Fran was seething.

"Do not waste your lies on me," she hissed, reverting to an intimidating, less colloquial speech. "You took advantage of a - uh - situation."

"Damn right I did!" Palom scoffed in reply. He stood and collected his cloak, adding, "Well, I see my services are no longer welcome, so I'll be going." Before he could react, Fran got up and arrested him from behind with a grip on his shoulder.

"I do not remember saying that you could leave."

She felt him flinch. "You're not going to hurt me some more, are you?"

"Oh, there will be plenty of time for that later." Fran let go of him and sat back down on the mat. He nervously rubbed the spot with his hand."Right now I just want you to finish the job." She pulled her knees up and spread her legs in an unambiguous fashion. Palom dropped his belongings where he stood, and kneeled in front of her.

"Only if you promise not to hurt me."

"Only if you make me forget you're not Porom."

* * *

Fran never forgave Palom completely for the incident the previous week, and began to loathe the memory of it. She wanted to excise it from her head, as it occupied her thoughts regularly. The guilt of her complacency would not have bothered her so except that afterword she realized how much she _enjoyed_ it. It was exciting and wild, and the memory sat there taunting her, daring her to further experiment sexually. More than once she fantasized about three-ways with the twins; each such thought felt like compounding treachery upon Porom. She yearned for resolution. 

Which is why she bought the lone earring from a desert wayfarer. It was a simple affair; she held it up at arm's length and examined it in the noon-day sun. Gold caustics danced across its hammered surface, hallmarks of quick but effective work from the jeweler. She turned to face the rest of the Clan trudging down the sandy embankment, and spied Palom through the center of the ring. A gutsy cockatrice, ignoring her rear guard position, gave chase to the remainder of the party ahead of her. Dust surrounded Palom as he swatted the feisty nuisance away with his fluted pole. Fran gripped her crossbow in her free hand, cocked the draw, and placed a needle-thin bolt in the groove.

As she hoped, Palom subdued the cockatrice easily. Palom whipped his head around to check for further foes, and as he did so she fired the bolt, neatly perforating his left earlobe two inches from its greatest extent. Palom shrieked and grabbed his ear, but in the vale of dust raised by the scuffle, the rest of the party paid him no mind. In the intervening seconds, Fran had covered the distance at a sprint, launching herself at him before he could react. She pinned him to the ground, her knees on his shoulders. He tried to fight her off, and she smacked him across his muzzle in turn.

"What the fuck!" he yelled, protecting his face with his arms. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Fran ignored him, and grabbed his ear. She opened the clasp to the earring, shoved the post through the bloody hole, and closed it in a swift motion. By this time the rest of Clan Atma noticed something was amiss, and doubled back, gathering around the two. Porom grabbed Fran's arm, pulling her away from his brother. Fran ripped her arm out of Porom's grip, ignoring shouts of protest from the rest of her party. Palom likewise ignored offers to help him to his feet - he rose, brushed the sand from his clothes, and examined the earring he had acquired through such untraditional means.

Fran's hair was still in her face from pouncing her quarry. She brushed it aside, and as she did so the gathered adventurers fell silent. "Now I can tell you two apart," she shot at Palom. The clan members looked at each other, dumbfounded. "And if I ever catch you without it, you will spend a few days, or perhaps weeks, dreading when and _where_ I choose to put the next one." Porom hit Palom in the shoulder, gesturing quizzically towards Fran.

"Just forget it," Palom grumbled, and shouldered through the encircled group to continue his trudge down the hill. Her catharsis complete, Fran broke a satisfied smile, and followed Palom through the gap he forged in the party. Porom looked like he wanted to stop her and ask what had just transpired, but he knew better. Maybe _that's_ why she liked him.


	3. The Sun Also Rises

**Author's Note**

This chapter takes place 12 years before the storyline of Final Fantasy XII, and 10 years before the Archadian invasion of Dalmasca. Fran has risen to the rank of Sargeant in the Archadian Foreign Legion, and leads a small crack team on missions that few others will take. Don't take the title of the chapter too literally; I'm keeping a tradition of naming portions after literary works that are somewhat related to the subject matter, but the choice is primarily motivated by whether it sounds good.

Rated 'M' for coarse language. Final Fantasy XII and Fran are copyright Square Enix. The rights to all other characters and story are retained by the author, and this chapter is provided as is without warrany of any kind, either expressed or implied, including, but not limited to, the implied warranties of merchantability and fitness for a particular purpose. Blah blah blah... standard boilerplate. Detailed comments please!

**Chapter 2 - The Sun Also Rises**

The sun was a constant. It blazed over the Jagd Yensa relentlessly, mocking her from its high perch: 100 degrees in the fucking shade. It was the punchline to a cruel joke.

_At least it was a dry heat._

Among her unit, they relished the thought that their continued presence might attract some brave Urutan. Anything to break up the monotony of this assignment. They might even have fresh water.

Fran stood near the edge of B-23, a long-abandoned oil storage tank, from which she had a clear view of the southern Sand Sea. Nothing stirred save the undulations of the impossible surface. She squinted in frustration, then wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. She stared at the drops for a moment, glistening in the hateful sun, considering whether she should lick them off to conserve water and electrolytes. You had time to think like that on days like these. She wiped it on the back of her water pouch, and took a drink from it in spite. A strong updraft whipped her ponytail into her face.

The wind was also a constant. The sun could guarantee the structures an existence free of decay in this environment, chasing away the slightest moisture that might hasten their oxidation. But the wind would not listen to negotiations. It whipped the fine sand from the sea caps, eroding anything exposed.

It had a secondary affect; you could orient yourself by feel. Any surface that faced the south would be sandblasted uniformly smooth, those surfaces facing east and west would be covered in transverse scratches, and the northern surfaces would have the rough texture of decayed metal, with flaking paint and plating. These attributes allowed one to navigate the industrial ruins by touch alone, which was especially handy when you had to close your eyes to keep the sand out.

"Corporal!" Fran yelled down the catwalk. He didn't break his stride, still circumnavigating the adjacent tank. If he had replied, she couldn't hear him as the wind had doubled and was now assaulting her ears. Their profile made them useless in these conditions. He stopped, and tried to light his tobacco pipe in futility. Fran waved her hands and shouted: "Krieger, get the fuck over here!"

The middle-aged ex-pirate looked up and stared in her direction. He motioned to himself, pointing at his chest with his pipe. She gave him the finger. _Who else would I be yelling at?_ Krieger pocketed his smoking implements and jogged over to her with one hand raised, deflecting the sun and wind from his face. He stopped alongside her, and cupped his hands over his mouth to her ear. "Windy enough fer 'ye?"

Fran resisted the reflexive desire to smack him. She channeled it into a dry chuckle, and leaned over to the side of his head to reply. "Aside from the abomination growing on your face that you call a beard, Corporal, any _anomalies_ to report?" He rolled his eyes.

"Nay, milady. Naught but sand, rust, an' more damned sand," he replied with a theatrical intonation that only comes from daily repetition. This post of theirs looked more and more like some kind of subtle punishment with each passing shift. She wondered which captain she pissed off, and if he was giggling in his quarters right now.

"This wind is making our charge impossible. I think we should take this downstairs, and get some protection from the elements. There's not much else we can do today." Krieger nodded in agreement, eager to get down to the north side of a lower catwalk, where he could reasonably attempt to light his pipe.

"Where's your butt-boy and The Bizzard?" he asked, as they made their way to a spiral staircase. By _The Bizzard_ he meant the female Bangaa, Bah'Ahlena, who gave herself that name in basic training when no one could pronounce her name right. In a moment of self-empowerment, she took the two slurs that she was most commonly known by ('bitch' and 'lizard'), forged a portmanteau therewith, and added the definite article for 'punch'. And he called Private Reginald her _butt-boy_ because... well... he didn't respect him enough to call him by his preferred name: _Reno_. Krieger continued, "We should meet up with 'em 'cause I shan't expect we're gonna be movin' before nightfall." Fran nodded in agreement.

She pointed to an adjacent cluster of tankers to the west. "Last time I had visual they were on top of C-35, before they disappeared behind those crates." He started down the stairs, and when they reached midtier he made a sweeping bow, allowing her to lead across the sky-walk that separated them from their destination. It amused her that she could identify that formation of rusting scrap by name, and that Krieger knew which she was referring to. There should have been identifiers painted on the structures at one point, but they were long gone. And she knew that they used to be there only because she had the blueprints, folded up in her rucksack. When they had nothing better to do (which was often), they poured over the documents and memorized the name and long-defunct purpose for the various structures of their temporary home.

And they had sheer lumbering bureaucracy to thank for that. The installation lay in disputed territory which at one point belonged to the Rozarrian empire, but as the plant fell into disuse, it ceased to be a _strategic asset_ and little attention was paid to the current Arcadian military presence. Nevertheless, with mounting tensions under no circumstances would Rozarria intentionally aid the poor grunts working for her enemy! So, with intentions to send her CO on a snipe hunt, Fran asked for documentation about the facility (in the vaguest terms possible). Yet this desk jockey dutifully filed a formal request which filtered up through the military channels, got punted to the Ministry of State, which was then transcribed into an innocuous diplomatic request of the Rozarrian Council of Commerce, which then in turn tracked down what remained of the architectural firm that designed this hellhole and **subpoenaed** (!) the drawings. And these were not some cheap facsimiles transmitted via MogNet straight from some back office, but freshly plotted drawings: bound, indexed, and annotated with appropriately translated markings. The audacious lineage of the documents were narrated by layer upon layer of cover sheets stapled to the front.

Remembering the folly of that affair inspired her budding humorous side. Approximately halfway across the sky-walk, Fran stopped and tried to look disoriented (this was hard to do). She made a show of pulling out her blueprints and pretended to examine them in the howling wind, pages fluttering wildly. She replaced them in her rucksack and afterwords licked a finger, pointing it straight into the air, as if to obtain a heading. Krieger roared with laughter.

Momentarily they came upon tank C-35 and proceeded to the north face to get out of the wind. Fran's ceramic plate armor clanked dully as she leaned against the side, rubbing her eyes and ears. Krieger shouted at the surrounding cluster of containers for the other two legionnaires. Privates Reno and Bah'Ahlena surprised them both by coming around from the south side of the container. Reno made his presence known by lifting the tassets of Fran's armor and grabbing a bare handful of her right buttock. She didn't flinch. There _was_ another reason why they called him her 'butt-boy'. "So private, anything to report?" she asked, not bothering to turn to look at him.

"Sir, I mean ma'am... no. No ma'am." Reno purred into her ear, stretching the last 'm' into a playful moan. The Bizzard interrupted his little display.

"Well Sarge," Bah'Ahlena began, "I'm carefully considering a transfer to the sword-swallowing division." The bangaa unsheathed her close combat weapon and pantomimed deep-throating it. "I daresay it would be an honor if I died doing my Empire a Great Service." Krieger chuckled, then greeted her properly with a playful bump of armor and shoulders.

"Rest assured, Bizzard, I will put in my good word for..." Fran trailed off. Reno's fingers had meanwhile found their way to her inner labia, but they didn't register. _Couldn't they hear that noise? What the hell is that noise!?_

It was the sound a tree made after the lightning strike but before hitting the ground. It was the sound of a hail of arrows that had not yet struck their mark. It was like the wind at the center of a cyclone: silent, deafening, full of dread. Maybe only she could hear it; that she lost her connection to the Green Word she would be cursed to hear such things that mortals were not meant to.

Fran's ears had turned outward and stood erect in her attempt to locate the aural phenomenon. The rest of her unit went quiet and stared at her; they were well accustomed to her unique body language and understood something fell approached. Reno quietly removed his hand from under her armor and gripped the walnut stock of his shotgun.

The sun rose twice that day. The second time it appeared in the west, breaching the artificial vertical horizon that was the cylinder wall of tank B-35. An immense roiling ball of flame and unnatural light, it rounded the service platform and drifted slowly down a connecting sky-walk towards them. _So this must be the anomaly. _Fran could feel the additional heat on her face and hands from this lesser sun as it drew closer. "What the bloody hell is that?" hissed Bah'Ahlena.

"It looks like an elemental." Fran answered, her voice wavering with uncertainty. The look of unease in Reno's face was troubling. She added,"I swear to the Gods you guys, if we make it out of here alive today, I promise I'll get us transferred to the Phon Coast." Krieger snickered dismissively.

After a few seconds Reno spoke plainly, "Guys, that's not just an elemental. It's an entite." The other three looked at him significantly; he was not one to flaunt a knowledge of taxonomy or of magical beings. They waited to see if he would follow up with any information concerning what to _do_ about it. "What are you guys staring at? All I know is it's dangerous!" he cried.

"I gathered," Fran muttered, and in response the four closed ranks, backing up against the tank wall. She could now hear the metallic clank of their footsteps upon the diamond grating, which meant the wind was diminishing. The whooshing of the maelstrom grew distant as the entite drew nearer, replaced with the deafening quiet punctuated by their agitated breaths. Somehow the entite calmed the surrounding air so it could maintain its ethereal integrity. Moreover the air temperature had dropped significantly; she felt goosebumps on her thighs as the sweat evaporated which contrasted with the increasing radiant warmth she felt on her face and ears. She worried that it might be extracting the energy from the environment directly, growing more powerful by the minute.

Bah'Ahlena was not one to be a sitting duck and began muttering the incantation for Reflect, when Fran frantically _shushed_ at her. Ominously, the whirling fires within the cursed orb seemed to form an iris that focused in upon the party. Krieger quickly put a hand over her mouth to manually silence the bangaa. "Are ye mad, Bizzard? 'Tis the bloomin' Salamand Entite! It'll pierce any barrier with its incantations, and castin' any spell will draw its ire." She knocked his hand away from her face and readied her Altair. Reno motioned to draw his weapon as well.

Fran put her hand over Reno's, pushing his gun back into his hip holster. There was no way they could survive a return volley of magic if they provoked it. "At ease," she commanded them. Bah'Ahlena looked at her incredulously. "I said: _At ease_, Bizzard!" Fran shouted. The bangaa reluctantly engaged the safety and cradled her rifle against her shoulder.

"So what in hell are we supposed to do about this... _thing_?" she shot back.

"We could try to steal the halcyon from it... that'd neutralize it instantly." Reno decided to open up his font of appropriate yet useless knowledge twice that afternoon. "I've got thief's gloves I can use to make it easier and..."

Memories of elemental lore Fran studied while in Clan Atma surfaced as she listened. "Would you shut your cock holster, Private?" Fran snapped at him. "You are just _full_ of great ideas today. Miss that halcyon and pull out an electrum instead and then we're all fucked." She surprised herself with the tone of her language, and wondered if it showed in her face.

Krieger spoke up. "So then what's the plan?"

Their options were decidedly limited. There was no way they could take it on themselves. But if they were careful, they could follow it for as long as it was nearing their base camp, then break away to radio for help. After all, her orders were to _monitor_ for an anomaly, not to neutralize it.

Before she could formulate a reply, the entite was close enough to C-35 that it started to drift to one side in preparation for a turn onto the circular catwalk. Keeping their distance, they inched around the container in the other direction. As it rounded the corner the corona clipped the railing, which caused the flaking rust to explode into a shower of white hot sparks, some of which were drawn and circulated within the entite's swirling center. All present collectively inhaled, bracing for a possible attack. As they held their breath, the sparks danced wildly, tiny versions of the slower moving electrum within the core.

Thankfully the entite wholly ignored them. Once it had proceeded some way around the container, the party could breathe again. Fran reached for her water pouch and downed the remaining contents. "There," she said once she had regained her composure. "We didn't do anything hasty, and no one smells like roasted cockatrice."

"So now what do we do?" Bah'Ahlena asked with suspicion.

"We follow it until periapsis with respect to our base camp, then we head there to radio back our findings and wait for further instructions," Fran replied, her plan now fully formed. She immediately began to stalk after the salamand entite.

The remainder of her unit looked at each other worriedly. "Per-app-sis?" Reno repeated, looking at Krieger. He shrugged dismissively, and hustled up the catwalk to rejoin Fran. The two privates hesistated to follow him, but once the howling wind and heat returned in the wake of the anomaly, it made for strong encouragement.


	4. Life of Joan

**A/N:** This section takes place 8 years prior to the main storyline. It is my longest section yet and I would really like some constructive feedback. I don't want to write something this long again if you find it uninspired, predictable, totally out of character, or worst of all: boring.

If you've read a prior version -- read it again. I revised and reworded it significantly and you might take away something entirely differently this time around. I promise not to edit in place ever again.

**Chapter 3 - Life of Joan**

* * *

**CONFIDENTIAL MEMO #AR-103101**

FLPO 4327

LANDIS FOREIGN LEGION BARRACKS

PORT-ON-NEBRAS

37 Spring 698 OV

Mme Srgt Fran:

I urge you to join me two days hence (39 Spr) at 1500 on the second floor of the White Cap in the neutral town of Balfonheim, to discuss a transfer into the Imperial Arcadian Army and a possible promotion.

We have encountered serious armed resistance from incorporated towns since the annexation of Landis and the surrounding region. We are spread too thin on the ground to make any headway in securing these areas. The newly formed Ninth Airborne Armada headed by the Honorable Judge Zecht has been tasked to turn the tide with air superiority, and they are in desperate need of capable pilots for supply and reconnaissance missions.

My intention is to recommend you for one of these newly formed positions. In return, you would get full citizenship and depending on the position you choose, a commissioned office with a crew at your command. You would be promoted to at least lieutenant commander no matter which position you choose.

In all my years as your liaison here in division command, this has been the most lucrative opening that has come across my desk. I am offering this to you first before I put it up for bid, as it's otherwise impossible for legionnaires to compete against Imperial rank and file.

I hold the utmost confidence that you will make the right decision, and exceed all expectations upon your acceptance. You may have your doubts, but please, let's discuss this over a drink before you dismiss my actions as folly.

Sincerely,

Rear Admiral Judge Firmus Piette

* * *

She turned the clear plastic card over and over between her fingers, not quite looking at it, rather into the reflection of the acrylic-clad signage on the till. _"Do not accept checks from Lone Wolf."_ She spied mirror-Piette across Quayside Court, strutting towards the plaza onto which spilled the Whitecap's open seating. A passing quayhand bid him hello, and he returned the gesture cheerfully with a ruffle of his laced cuffs. He looked so queer in civilian clothing.

A well-traveled pirate addressed the admiral by title having recognized him without his mask of justice, but Piette simply waved him off. In this town, rank and birthplace are of no currency, and Piette would have no man treat him any differently. He returned the salute by way of a great (unexpected) hug, patted heartily him on the shoulder, and strode away.

He was genuinely in good spirits... thank the gods. Fran wasn't sure what to make of this sudden meeting and so hoped to spy other interested parties, meeting in secret, lurking in shadows, reminding Piette to do his part _or else_. Or perhaps to catch Piette in a moment of self-reflection and doubt, sneaking a swig from the liquor flask he often hid in his vest. Piette didn't rise to his rank from common stock without having made a few sacrifices along the way: swallong his pride, sweeping bits of his humanity under the rug, and biting his tounge when a braver man might speak. She would not fall victim to neither the Imperial machine nor the egos of men who too long have greased its wheels.

_I suppose all this cloak and dagger is of no consequence. Entertaining nevertheless…_

"We have an excellent combination offer for that gambit there. Couple that beaut with our _Ally: Status KO_ model and save thirty percent. You'll never worry about being overwhelmed by your quarry again, I guarantee..."

"Not interested," Fran interrupted the street vendor, finally flipping the card onto the table. She turned and jogged across the court into the plaza, trailing Piette at a distance. The tassels adorning his belt and scabbard disappeared through the front door, and she quickened her pace, ducking between tables. Her ponytail flitted into the shadow of the alcove, catching the door before it could close. She slinked into the lobby, watching as he made his way through the crowd towards to back stairs. After watching to make sure he wasn't being followed (_hah_), she turned to make her way around the seating area when she nearly toppled the Whitecap Wench.

"Oh! 'scuse me, I'm so sorry," she gasped. "'ave you been helped?"

"I... If you will excuse me, I'll show myself upstairs," Fran replied, flustered by her own inattention. She squeezed up against the wall, and darted around the back of the floor. At the landing of the stairs was a full length mirror. In a fit of nervous vanity, Fran took a moment to examine her hair. A few displaced strands of her white finery stood out over her colorful crimson bolero; she pushed them back behind her shoulder. Under her jacket she wore a sheer chemise of earth-toned nanna wool, which once was frocked with a delicate hem; she had removed it leaving a frayed edge that dithered into her cocoa skin pleasingly. Her eyes followed it down her midriff where it disappeared under a cotton duck skirt, artfully wick-dyed with indigo. They snapped back up to her jacket where she fiddled with a brass button. **_I_**_ look queer in civilian clothing._

In furtherance of her surveillance plans, the previous day Fran went to find a set of outfits that would help her blend in with the natives. Perhaps she did too good a job; she barely recognized her own reflection. Glancing behind herself in the mirror towards the seating area, she was greeted by the hungry stares of patrons. She frowned, and the more coherent of them looked back to their drinks. Quietly, she made her way upstairs out of sight, closed her eyes, and wished away the thoughts of their leering eyes. _Probably so drunk they would buy a cactaur a cocktail…_ She looked up and knocked on the door to the smaller of the two upper meeting rooms.

"Come on in. You're a little early."

The room was the size of a guest bedchamber, anchored with a round oaken table that had seen better days. The chairs were still piled in the corner of the room. On the topmost chair in the stack lay Piette's scabbard, next to which was a large, heavy-looking canvas bag. She didn't see Firmus carrying it, and wondered briefly who might have left it there. Her focus was drawn to the back wall which broke to a balcony with double french doors, for one of these were open. Visible was the back of his head in an outdoor chair; cigar smoke circled around him, and his requisite bourbon-on-the-rocks was riding sidecar on a folding canvas ottoman. After debating for a moment whether she should set up the chairs so they could sit down inside, Fran glided across the room to join him outdoors.

"Oh! Have a seat." Firmus was surprised when Fran walked onto the balcony; she was without her military-issue footwear and forgot that her footfalls were quiet as a coeurl's. She made sure not to forget to not salute him, lest she unnecessarily have the wind squeezed out of her in retaliation. Instead she quietly sat in the wicker chair he had placed caddy-corner to his makeshift table. "Did you order a drink?" he asked.

"No, not yet."

"What are you having?"

She considered for a brief moment how impaired she could afford to be before her next shift, then reminded herself she was on leave all week.

"Brandy of serpentwyne."

Firmus got up slowly, stretching. "Ahh. Fitting. You know how the saying goes: Claret is the liquor for boys, port for men, but she who aspires to be a heroine must drink brandy." After flicking the dead ashes from his cigar over the balcony railing, he quickly stepped to the door of the interior room, and shouted indiscriminately down the hallway towards the stairs and the bar below.

He stepped back outside and puffed his cigar a few times, thoughtfully. "You didn't have to do that," Fran told him. "I can yell," she added, just loud enough for him to hear.

"Nonsense. You would have gone all the way back downstairs to the bar."

Fran rolled her eyes at this, and turned her attention to a seagull that was brave enough to perch upon the occupied balcony. Secretly she was glad she didn't have reason to endure those hungry eyes again so soon. In her peripheral vision Admiral Piette returned to his seat, and took a careful sip of his bourbon. They sat quietly for a brief moment. Just as she turned to face him to break the silence and get down to business, the Whitecap Wench was politely knocking at the french doors with her drink.

"'cuse me, sirs, ma'am," she asked quietly as her eyes adjusted to the afternoon sun. Her face lit up when she recognized Fran from downstairs.

"Firmus, whose purse are you dipping into for our drinks? Your own, or the general ledgers'?" Fran asked, pretending to ignore the glass in the barmaid's outstretched hand.

"Don't you worry about that. And you know as soon as you accept a commissioned office, you can fill out expense justifications yourself. It could be your first exercise of your authority." Fran crossed her arms and titled her head. "So I don't think we're going to have any trouble properly compensating our gracious hostess," he added, now speaking to the Whitecap Wench.

"Leave the bottle please," Fran added with a smile as she accepted the carafe and snifter. Firmus slid the ottoman closer to Fran so she would have somewhere to put it. After the Wench excused herself, Fran turned the glass on its side and poured at an angle until the devilish brew reached the rim. She returned the carafe to the ottoman, and swirled the upright glass a few times, noticing the legs of the crimson liquid as it ran down the insides of the glass.

Delicately she brought her nose over the mouth of the snifter, and inhaled gently. The sharp but pleasant aroma triggered memories of a desert cave she became lost in (temporarily) while exploring the Jagd Yensa. Exhaling, she took a long sip of the brandy, letting it linger on her tongue, tingly on her gums, and exquisitely warm as she swallowed it. She could almost feel the bristle of wind-kicked sand on her skin, or maybe it was goose pimples.

Firmus snapped her back to the present. "So did you get all of your shopping done this afternoon?" She coughed, and lowered the glass from her face, straining to keep it from reddening. He leaned in towards her and added, "You should see the prices on gambits in the winter, it's best to buy them in the off-season."

"What gave me away?" she asked as nonchalantly as possible.

"Oh, it was the hair. I recognized you from a few hundred paces on that alone. But I have to say, that outfit threw me for a moment."

She sighed and took another draught from her glass. "I suppose my kind is not suitable for reconnaissance."

"Oh come now. All you would need is a haircut and you'd look like any other vieran tourist," he chided. Upon this suggestion, Fran looked at him severely. "…And much better dressed, I might add."

"Indeed," she replied dismissively. She hid her displeasure at the suggestion of curtailing her locks by retreating behind her snifter, which she then drained. With a sigh she reached for the carafe again.

He leaned towards her and added quietly, "And I do mean that. I must say that outfit is quite becoming. It really complements your eyes." Coughing, he quickly straightened up again, concerned with whether he overstepped his boundaries.

Fran regarded him blankly. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, leaving one dangling which she bounced involuntarily. His admission to admiring her looks was not itself inappropriate, just unexpected. And in truth she hadn't considered her appearance when she bought the clothing; it wasn't her intent to impress anybody, so even if it were true, she felt she didn't deserve that kind of praise from her superior. Part of her wanted to just ignore him, but another part of her, the same vain part that cringed at the suggestion of cutting her hair, allowed a twinge of pride at his complement._ So why was I so self-conscious in the bar?_

At this juncture, a warm and peculiarly fuzzy feeling spread from her head out to her extremities. Or perhaps it was her _perception_ of this numb blanket that spread outward. She noticed it in her ears first; they could no longer feel the cool of the ocean breeze. The alcohol was taking effect rapidly on her empty stomach; her previous emotional preoccupations were thus redirected to the intoxicating qualities of her drink, and whether she should be making career decisions in this condition.

Almost on cue, Firmus decided to change the subject, and busied himself with searching his numerous vest pockets for various bits of paperwork related to the intended purpose of their meeting. In a few minutes time he had collected a small bundle. Fran decided it was better they run through it while drunk; she could rely on her instincts and subdue her tendency to over-think matters. And she would probably forget most of the decision-making process, so she couldn't admonish herself later if it didn't work out. _Perfect._

"So... let's try to, uh..." Firmus drawled as he flipped through the pages, looking for an appropriate starting point. Fran's expression softened as she tried to give him as much attention as she could muster. "You don't want to be thrown into the midst of a large crew, I take it?"

Fran shook her head. "It is easier to work with people individually." She pronounced each syllable in the last word with distinction.

"Couldn't agree more." Firmus flipped through the stack and filtered some pages from it, folding and discarding them to the side of his chair. "And I guess reconnaissance is right out," he added with a chuckle.

In response she looked away and stared once more at the seagull. A particularly strong breeze caused it to alight, and when it lazily dipped below the railing she was forced to turn her attention back to Firmus' fluttering folio. He was still searching through his papers for a position that better suited her personality.

"You could test pilot the CB58 Valfarre. It has a reputation of being a nice piece of kit."

"CB58, that's made at Draklor."

"It's too sensitive to be contracted out."

Fran downed the rest of her brandy. "I won't fly any prototypes unless they're made by moogles." An uncharacteristically sweeping statement, but one that felt right at the time. As she put her glass down on the ottoman, she caught her reflection and found her nose had grown noticeably pink. She crossed her arms and sat back in the chair, her foot bobbing at a more determined pace.

The middle-aged judge sighed, and made two passes through his papers. He folded them and put them between his legs, and reached over for the papers he discarded earlier, and went through those a second time. Furrowing his brow, he pulled out a thin stapled section.

"Well there's this, but I don't know if... see it's Atomos class. Which means at least 8 permanent staff. Then again–"

Fran's foot froze. Firmus took this to mean he should continue.

"So they want someone to skipper this experimental armed container vessel. Code named: _Eisenwolk_. Designed by a moogle shipwright's guild..."

"Moogles," Fran interjected in a musical voice, then caught herself and sat up straighter, adding, "I mean, that is a good sign."

"...Right. Five hundred tonnes displacement, handling six thousand deadweight, with fifteen hundred more for thrust (gods!) — ten permanent staff: two officers including you, four civilian maintenance, four enlisted..." He scanned down to the bottom of the document. "They'd make you a commander."

Fran mouth went just a bit slack. "That ship must be the size of this block." She leaned forward, the numb blanket seemingly dissolved. Never had she ventured foot on quite so large a vessel in her years as a courier or in private freight.

"Not in all dimensions. But the bay doors are taller than this balcony. I saw it in dry dock... it was impressive."

Fran frowned, and asked an all-important question. "Wouldn't this position necessarily make me a judge?"

Firmus scratched his forehead, conjuring a succinct description of her duties. "Technically? Yes. What does it mean?" he began, and exhaled noisily. "Uphold maritime law, detain mutineers and pirates, all that good stuff. Nothing unfamiliar if you already went through the commercial license process. Oh, and do whatever sector command tells you."

Fran chuckled. "I had no idea being a judge gave one such freedom."

"You get to take out your anger on your subordinates. That's a nice perk."

"So why didn't you mention this position earlier?"

"Well, you would be paired with a co-pilot. Probably an aggressive, up-and-coming judge from the Akademy, and I didn't want you to have to butt heads, especially as you'd be coming in from the outside and outranking him."

She sniffed loudly and then dryly remarked, "Kids need to learn to respect their elders." Firmus laughed, pushing back his salt and pepper hair. That simple reaction to their shared perspective prompted a chilly thought: she was old enough to be his mother.

* * *

Piette walked over to the canvas bundle on the stack of chairs, hefted it over to the table, and let it fall unceremoniously with a loud clunk. Fran helped get some chairs and put them around the table. As he spread out the paperwork, Fran went to the doors and closed them partway. She looked back at Piette. He had implied she would find the position uncomfortable, challenging to her interpersonal skills — this hardened Fran's resolve to take the job. She wondered if that had been his intention all along. It fit the pattern: sending her a letter days in advance, stringing her along with her surveillance... she shook her head gently and returned to her seat.

"So there's three steps. The final one is your written exam, which you'll sit for a month or so from now and ace, I'm sure, so we'll not concern ourselves with that now. More importantly, you first need to become a naturalized citizen." He slid a gel roller and single piece of paper in front of her. It was already signed by a notary.

"You need to just state your full name and place of birth," Firmus added, relighting his cigar.

Fran stared at the blank prompts. "You mean, Fran; Eryut Village?"

"Come on, you can do better than that."

_What the hell does he expect me to put here? Francesca bint-Jevti Margrace al'Dalweh? I'm sure that will go over well._

"Look, you just have to make it believable. No one is asking for birth certificates or anything; that part is already signed."

Apparently he had gone through some trouble on her behalf. With a few strokes of a pen (and a few well-placed bribes), he could rewrite her past. Thankfully she wasn't too attached to it.

"Well I am not going to put down 'Fran'. But I wouldn't know what else to call myself," Fran mused. "Give me the name of one of your grandmothers."

"Hmmm... Merose?"

Fran mouthed the name, trying it on for size. She shook her head.

"Well, there was my nana Joanna. I always liked calling her that, it rhymed."

"Joanna... Joan," Fran muttered thoughtfully. Its monosyllabic variation appealed to her by some unqualifiable aesthetic.

"Joan Kenroh of old Landis. That rolls off the tongue nicely, does it not?"

Fran gripped the pen gently, her hand hovering over the document. She glanced up at his eyes. He darted his eyes to the pen she held, and made a futile gesture with his cigar. He was giving her another chance to back out. She cursed quietly as she committed her new identity to paper.

"And now you shall be known as Joan of Arcadia," he noted, and punctuated his sentence with a drag from his cigar. He took the paper away from her, folded it up, and slipped it back into his vest, taking more care than when he first pulled it out.

"So what of the missing second step?" Fran asked.

In response, Admiral Piette reached over to the canvas bag, rotated it to face Fran, and unbuckled the straps that kept it fast. He unfolded the canvas to reveal an impressive assortment of two-handed, long reach weapons. "Every Judge needs to be proficient with a weapon befitting of the title," he stated simply. Fran couldn't tell if he was being facetious. After all, she would be piloting an airship with 50 caliber autoguns.

"Despite what you may be thinking, you will use it one day, if you are lucky enough." The playful demeanor she observed earlier that evening was replaced with stoicism on this point.

Fran traced her finger along the arms from right to left with her dominant hand. She skipped over the halberd (she had experience with it). A greatsword with an engraved hilt caught her attention. It read: "Ultima Ratio Regum"

"What does this mean here? It is not in a language I recognize."

Firmus' expression softened. "Ah, the _Kingsbane_. I've asked what that expression meant; all I've gathered is that it is from a long-dead tongue. The origin of its common name however is well understood."

Fran hefted it in her hand. Stepping away from the table, she pushed her chair in and stood behind it. Carefully she gripped the _Kingsbane_ with both hands and raised it behind her head. Firmus could not help inching his chair backwards. With a menacing swoosh, she brought it down upon the back of the chair. She intended to stop it before completing the stroke, but the sword was too massive. Only by twisting her wrists at the last moment did she save it from being split in twain, causing it to slap the chair back on the side of the foible.

They both winced at the ugly sound of the reverberating blade, thankfully damped by the wood. "It gets easier with practice," Firmus reassured her. She leaned over and replaced the greatsword on the canvas, unimpressed. To its immediate left was a smaller sword, discreet, thin, with a long grip. She picked it up, and tossed it from one hand to the other.

Repeating her previous acid test, she raised the sword up, then brought it down towards the chair. It stopped imperceptibly above it, and as she drew the sword back to her right side it left a faint scratch. "Or you might find one you like better," Firmus began, but Fran interrupted him with another unexpected stroke of the sword. As she followed through she imagined she saw a trail of green luminescence following the blade's path, but it could have been a trick of the light. The chair split cleanly into two halves, falling away from the table with a clatter.

"I think I like this one. What's it called?"

Firmus swallowed, then regained his composure. "_Wolkenrfassung_... the Ame No Murkano. A wise choice."

Joan smiled. _Change might not be so bad._


	5. Married by Neck Rig

**A/N: **This chapter takes place six years and change before the events of the main storyline. "Joan" is now employed as a supply ship commander for the Archadian Ninth Armada. As always, standard boilerplates apply. Please review for content, presentation, characterization— anything. And any suggestions you might have for where this is going are again, much appreciated. (**Updated x2**: more lines for the Lieutenant, grammar/continuity fixes)

**Chapter 4 - Married by Neck Rig**

– 5 Spr 700 VE, 0300 hours

Her armor sat unused on a mannequin in the corner of her cramped quarters (despite the size of the airship, nearly all space was devoted to cargo). Cleverly designed for her unique figure, it comprised interlocking sections of damascus steel intended to hang from a form-fitting bodice. This unusual design allowed for increased mobility and spread the weight evenly across her wiry frame. The accompanying helmet was lodged haphazardly between the armor and the wall. This too was intricate but less practical; rings upon rings of concentric brass were fused together in intersecting orbits, intended to protect her face and neck, while leaving gaps by the eyes and ears. A visor more than anything, it clipped easily onto her skullcap. When fully suited she was comically menacing, resembling some disenchanted esper ready for battle against the gods.

In practice she wore naught but the bodice, leg pieces, and the skullcap. She laughed in disbelief the first time she glimpsed herself thus clad; the armorer must have been inspired by Vieran wood warders when designing these base components, and she resembled the very same people she rejected all those years ago. But who could fault their practicality? The leather and steel ribbing gave her extra lumbar support, and the attachment points served to carry tools in place of armor. The helmet was less useful; her ears gave her plenty of warning when a bulkhead loomed low in her path, so head protection was not strictly necessary, but it did serve to keep her mane out of her face. In all the commissioned set amounted to an expensive tool belt and hair accessory, and a subtle reminder that one's past can never completely be evaded.

So unless she needed to move anything heavy or wedge herself behind machinery, she defaulted to her mess uniform. Grey slacks, black top, with a deep red vest and brass trimming; they were a pleasing arrangement of the official colors. Moreover, when it was necessary to exert her authority and discipline her staff, she preferred to do it without the impersonal suit or distracting bodice. The vest intensified the color of her eyes, such that without raising her voice, she could command the undivided attention of even the most jaded grunts. Currently the vest lay in a heap under the mannequin, amidst other clothing that needed to be washed.

Joan sighed, loosening the top button of her shirt.

She squinted at the idle heap of metal. It needed to be oiled and polished before it could be worn again. That wasn't going to happen anytime soon. She looked back to the clipboard she held in her hands: work logs for the past twenty-four hours. The numbers screamed at her from the page, demanding to be checked, signed, and sent to sector command by secure facsimile. She pleaded with them: _I haven't finished cross-checking you against the timecards_... the figures rallied and blurred together in her head. She closed her eyelids and massaged her temples. What she needed most now was sleep.

That wouldn't happen anytime soon either. Her co-pilot just went AWOL, which made her the only officer on duty. They would land in Archades in three hours; there she'd receive her fourth subordinate in 18 months. Not exactly a stellar track record.

_Eisenwolk_ sported a sophisticated auto-pilot system, still she couldn't leave it with her enlisted for more than a few minutes at a time; they managed to break things in ways she never thought possible. _Just stay awake long enough to meet and greet this new tin can, then you can drop this work in his lap and sleep for a few days._

A muffled shrill beeping drifted to her ears. She looked at the door, then at the clock, then the clipboard, and back to the door again. _Shit._ Tossing the logbook on the bed, she slipped on her stilettos and stalked across the room. She leaned against the door frame and pressed the release button, the panel retracting with a soft pneumatic report. The alarm now blared undeterred, causing her to cringe.

She made her way foredeck towards the bridge. A bewildered technician frantically poked at a touchscreen, now aware of Joan's approach by her staccato gait, which played counter-rhythm to the intermittent shriek of his console. He ducked out of the way as she grabbed the back of the headrest with impatience. Taking his seat, her fingers flew over the keyboard as she brought up a key diagnostic screen and troubleshooting guide. She made room for the technician to return to his station, which he did while avoiding eye contact. Arms crossed, she waited a few seconds for him to "discover" how to solve the issue. After a few tender pokes at the screen, the alarm ceased, the oil pressure to the aft turbojets restored.

Joan slumped into the nearest pilot chair. "What's our ETA?"

The reasonably competent radar technician spoke up. "We're making good time, about 200 minutes."

"Wake me up in 3 hours," Joan muttered, and drifted off uneasily.

* * *

– 0645 hours 

Joan struggled to insert the leather inserts into her sub-armor. She glanced at the clock; she still had fifteen minutes. A polite knock sounded from the other side of her door. She sighed, abandoning the effort to cover her exposed stomach, slipped on her shoes and helmet, and went to see what the problem was.

"What?!" she vexedly demanded as the panel slid away. A pile of armor too large for its inhabitant greeted her with a salute. She groggily returned it, then using the hand to discreetly rub the sleep out of her eyes.

"Lieutenant Ffamran Mid Bunansa, at your serv—" he trailed off as she stepped into the light of the hallway.

"You're early. I was about to fetch you from the barracks. Who let you on here anyway, did that lazy sonofabitch boatswain leave the gangways unlocked?" she demanded. The poor junior officer didn't say anything for a few seconds, and Joan wondered whether she might have made too strong a first impression.

Ffamran eventually regained his voice. "Sir! I mean ma'am... No ma'am! The harbormaster was instructed to let me onboard orders of Admiral..."

"Piette?" Joan hazarded. The suit of armor nodded affirmatively. She suspected Firmus was trying to limit exposure of his promotion of a viera to judgeship from as many of his peers as possible. Out of sight, out of mind.

She ducked into her room, rooted around underneath her bunk, and emerged with two large, bound volumes. "Lieutenant? Here." She tossed the binders at the startled proto-judge, who caught them with surprising agility. "Your bunk is aft two bulkheads on the left. I suggest you get comfortable and familiarize yourself with these ops manuals for the next few hours. I'll give you the grand tour after we get underway again at 1300. As for me, I'm going to bed."

Joan stepped into her bunk and slammed the release. Ffamran began to protest, but it was cut off with a hiss and the click of deadbolts engaging. Clasps clacked, and leather and steel belts clanked as her bodysuit fell to the pile of clothes in front of the mannequin. Surveying her bare form in the vanity, she decided that it was more effective if she didn't show off taut midriff unless absolutely necessary. She disappeared into a pile of blankets, and willed herself to sleep.

* * *

– 1420 hours 

Joan held a handrail to steady herself as the airship was jostled by strong winds; she still wasn't used to the service walk above the cargo area when it was empty. Her sensitive ears constantly perceived their height above the deck versus the vast expanse of steel below, courtesy of the echoes from each click of their heels. It didn't help that the artificial cavern was lit by the sterile white of mercury vapor lamps (_damn energy-pinching moogles_). A complete antithesis from the closeness, the warm perpetual twilight, characteristic of the Golmore jungle floor that she once...

"I think this is it right here," Ffamran began, interrupting her miniature existential crisis. She hid her discomfort with a critical expression. The junior officer from Archades reached up towards the ceiling and confidentally pulled down a service panel, but it became unhinged and clattered on the catwalk. If it startled him, the helmet hid his reaction.

A smile crept to her face. "Very good, you found the emergency override panel." She was pleased that he at least skimmed the important parts of those manuals. Unexpected though, as she was looking forward to having him run around trying to find it. She needed to up the ante. Without looking, she reached up and grabbed a breaker. "So, will pulling this divert power from the glossair rings to the turbojets, or..."

Ffamran peered up, then took off his helmet and got on tiptoe to see better._ Wow_. He had dirty blonde hair that was peppered with highlights, combed back simply, emphasizing his aggressive hairline and sideburns. They nicely framed his strong, distinctive face, emerging under the last vestiges of the rounder features of his youth. Even though his neck was now craned up, she glimpsed a flash of speckled hazel irises. He looked back at her and started to tell her something, when she saw his teeth. White and straight; a quality sometimes overlooked even by the vainest gentry._ What is this kid doing here? One flash of that smile, and chops and panties would pile at his feet.  
_

"Ma'am. I said I think that one's for the emergency lighting," Ffamran repeated. She blinked twice, and struggled to remember what she was doing before she lost her train of thought. She brought her hand down from the panel, and unintentionally brought the breaker with it. She stared at it.

Rapidly, lights dimmed out all over the cargo bay, leaving them in utter blackness. They both coughed. After a few eternal seconds, fluorescent lights underneath the catwalk flickered on, illuminating them from beneath.

"Right, very good," Joan muttered, hoping her breasts would make themselves useful and obscure the light, hiding her expression from view. Her face was hot enough he could probably feel it in his chest plate.

"Shall we get a replacement, then?" the junior judge suggested.

"Lead the way," she replied, leaning against the railing so she wouldn't block his way back. But he clanked off in the opposite direction, headed aftwards for the supply closet. Her attempt to transform her mistake into a "test" didn't work.

"Wait, Lieutenant," she commanded. "How did you know were we keep the breakers? You could not possibly have read that much since this morning, and still remembered any of it."

He flashed her a brilliant smile over his shoulder, standing out from the shadows of his inversely-lit form. "You're right, Commander. It's not possible. I simply made sure to memorize the pages that were recently dog-eared."

She pursed her lips in amusement. _Clever, this one._

* * *

– 34 Sum 700 VE, 1030 hours 

For effect Ffamran leaned back in his chair so far, he nearly toppled it, forgetting the weight of his armor. Animatedly, he recounted his brush with certain doom to a trio of bemused engineers. One glove on, one glove off, every time he slammed his fist into his hand he winced. Joan noted that half of the story was communicated by his body language. "So there we were in the meat locker, pants around my ankles, when we hear her dad, the Judge Magister, screaming for her to come back to the party! We would be found out for sure, 'twas horrible," he lamented.

This made at least four times that Joan heard this story. Amusing, but he needed to work on his punchline, and she was getting tired of his audience.

"Pardon my interruption, but unless I am mistaken you bilge rats have rounds to make, or do I sign your timecards so you can swap tales of what glory holes you cram your short-arms into?" she asked, deadpan. The three looked at each other, grumbling acknowledgements, and saluted the junior officer on their way out of the mess area.

They were sitting in a cramped dining space below the bridge in the foredeck, downing their second rounds of coffee. He looked out a tall window by their table, staring through wispy clouds roiling with turbulence as the airship barreled through them.

"Awww, I was just getting to the good part," he mockingly whined.

"I just want to enjoy my coffee without gagging."

She looked at him and he turned back to meet her gaze. Without his helmet he looked so out of place in his armor, like he just stole it from a costume shop.

"So, why did you sign up for this tour anyway, Lieutenant?" Joan asked her first mate. "You could be flying through upper judiciary training with that memory and charm of yours."

"Oh come on. I like it here," Ffamran replied, smiling. "You make it sound like I'm being punished or something."

"Well, my last chief mate was put on here because of insubordination in his previous position, so yeah, that was a possibility." He rolled his eyes, and she continued, "And there are more exciting ways to get flight experience."

Ffamran laughed. "So what does that make you?"

"Me? I settled," she admitted. "I tired of bouncing around the Foreign Legion so I snapped up the first opportunity that came my way."

"And now you know why the Bhujerban word for 'Opportunity' is also the same word for 'Problem'. But you lucked out, I mean, you got me," he added mischeviously. She smiled. She was doing that frequently since he joined their team, thankful that there was _somebody else_ on board who could work the flight planning system, keep records straight, navigate worth a damn, tell her a dirty joke every once in awhile...

"Foreign Legion, huh?" She nodded, and sipped her coffee.

"Hmm. You're avoiding my question, Ffamran," she insisted.

He turned away from her, and gazed out the window again, the sky reflected in his eyes. "You want to know the gods' honest truth?" he asked, followed by a mirthless laugh. She put her coffee cup back down on the table.

"I hate being a judge." His eyes narrowed, and looked back at her. "I hate wearing this," he added, flicking his helmet on the table with his gloved hand. "I hate hiding behind this... this... symbol that I wear, and everything it represents. I, I..."

She could have sworn she saw his eyes watering up.

"But I don't know how to be anything else. So I just wanted to get away, to be free of all that... I don't know." He cradled his forehead in his ungloved hand, exhasperated.

_Ahhhh, the woes of the teenage gentry. Rebel against the social order, down with the senate and the corrupt judges! Probably living in daddy's shadow and/or reflected glory._ These thoughts were an involuntary reaction to his explanation, but they surprised her and she was mildly disgusted to come to such premature conclusions. After all, he deserved more respect than that.

_Wait, why? You've only known him for four months. You've never had respect for any of your previous juniors who lasted half as long._

_You fucking idiot. You like him._

She wondered if he saw her screw up her face in annoyance at herself. Better he think it was directed at him. Involuntarily she picked at her teeth with a fingernail.

_Zo-di-bleeding-ark, Commander, you'd better put an end to this right now. The last thing you need is accusations of reverse sexual impropriety, you cradle-robber you._

After a moment she removed her hand from her mouth, and regarded him with her best knowing look. "So, why don't you just leave?" she asked evenly.

"What, what do you mean, this tour?"

"No, I mean the Imperial army. Archadia."

"And do what?" he asked incredulously.

"Does it matter? Anything! You severly underestimate your ability to stand on your own two feet."

"No... no way. I could never do that. My father..." he trailed off. She looked at him with frustration. _What is your problem, you're getting emotionally involved again!_

"Who gives a flying crap about your father? You need to do what will make you happy. Otherwise you are going to regret it for the rest of your life," she shot back. _Speak for yourself._

He looked back out the window again. "What, what are you playing at? I mean he ignores me, sure, but..." he stammered.

Joan wanted to kick herself. "Just forget it," she sighed, and downed the rest of her coffee. She got up, pushed her chair in, and walked off to the stairs, hoping to put some distance between herself and Ffamran for the rest of the morning.

* * *

– 51 Sum 700 VE, 0115 hours 

Bright stars swam in front of her eyes when she squeezed them shut. She reached for the bunk light and turned it off, as it was now giving her a headache. Her hand was still sticky from the self-stimulation, the orgasm unsatisfying and ultimately not worth the lost sleep.

But she couldn't get that stupid kid out of her head. It had been not more than 48 hours since he went AWOL, and it took all she could muster not to fantasize about him in his absence.

_Just like all the others._ Except for the emotional attachment, lustful undercurrent, and this time she conciously tried to drive him away. _Still, you are 5 for 5, brava. _She rationalized that he was probably better off, but a nagging guilt sat in the pit of her stomach. Which was dangerously close to her sex, and so the vicious cycle continued.

Joan bit her pillow in frustration and banged on the wall with her fist, not caring if anyone heard. She buried her head in deeper, sincerely hoping her next first mate would be a woman.


	6. Things Fall Apart

**Author's Note**

This chapter takes place primarily in 704 VE, two years before the main storyline of FF XII. There are snippets of documents herein that describe events prior to this chapter; they are dated accordingly. No Ffamran this time around, sorry.  
Some characters, likenesses, and story elements are copyright Square-Enix and are used without permission; all other rights are retained by the author, ya' heard? Remember your three 'R's: Read through, Review, and Recycle. Actually, scratch that last one...

**Chapter 5 - Things Fall Apart**

**CONFIDENTIAL MEMO #AR-110815**

TO: J.M. ZECHT, FILES  
DATE: 30 Aut 702 VE, 1412  
RE: NINTH ARMADA RADIO TRAFFIC INTERCEPT  
**PROTECT AS SECRET (NOFORN/HUMINT)**

-- BEGIN TRANSCRIPT

PIETTE: Hey nanna Joanna.

KENROH: Very funny, Firmus. Get off this frequency.

PIETTE: Now I know you're in a bad mood. I would be too. What is this, your sixth?

KENROH: «unintelligible»

KENROH: Seventh. And what business is it of yours?

PIETTE: A little birdie told me that you were still having trouble with turnover. And I didn't want you attracting negative attention. Performance reviews are coming up and

KENROH: Cut the crap. You would rather I attract no attention at all.

PIETTE: Maybe. Maybe I just want to help.

KENROH: I am confident «unintelligible»

PIETTE: Forget that. I managed to get the band back together.

KENROH: Do you enjoy trying to confuse me with Bhujerban idioms?

PIETTE: Are you headed for port in Archades?

KENROH: Yes. We're about

KENROH: «unintelligible»

KENROH: Uh, 5 hours out.

PIETTE: Go to the Ferrinas barracks, briefing room three niner, after you dock.

KENROH: Why? I need to head down to human resources and

PIETTE: Not anymore you don't.

«pause»

KENROH: What did you do?

PIETTE: You will report to room three nine and meet with Lieutenant Krieger and Warrant Officer Bah«unintelligible»

KENROH: This is insane. I don't know what to say to you.

PIETTE: How about thank you.

KENROH: What briefing room was that again?

PIETTE: Thirty-niner.

-- END TRANSCRIPT  
**PROTECT AS SECRET (NOFORN/HUMINT)**

* * *

Judge Zecht loomed over Piette, both hands on his desk, expressionless. Piette reclined in his chair, unfazed by this tactic of intimidation. Zecht was some years his junior, with a youthful appearance and stature that did little to command respect. His ambition was limitless, however. The transcript sat between them, and neither of them acknowledged its presence. 

The rear admiral was too busy for a standoff, so he spoke first. "Is this bullshit supposed to scare me?"

Zecht smirked. "This transcript is over a year old. Do you want to know why I am only showing this to you now?"

"Not particularly." He leaned forward in his chair. "But I'm sure you can't _wait_ to tell me," Firmus added condescendingly.

Zecht pushed away from the desk, and began to pace back and forth. "Hmmm... perhaps I was saving it for a rainy day – no, was it to take care of two birds with one stone? No..." He feigned resignation. "Well I'll spare you the platitudes. Lord Vayne tasked me with an important errand yesterday, and I was just struggling, _struggling_, to decide who under my command would be _worthy_ enough to shoulder this burden." The younger admiral snarled with contempt. "Then I remembered my dear comrade, the charity case."

"I'll give you a platitude, you vermin," Firmus growled. In retaliation the upstart threw a second packet of paper at him.

"You are to give these orders to your ragtag crew." Zecht waited for Piette to scan the action items.

He looked up from the document, and dropped it on the desk. "I am not getting them involved in Galtean Squall."

"You don't have a choice. Either you handle this yourself, or I will, after I make sure you are summarily discharged and stripped of your pension." Zecht turned on his heel and stormed out of the Rear Admiral's office, slamming the door behind him.

"Have a nice evening," Firmus muttered to his closed door. He opened the file cabinet adjacent to his desk, surveying the folder labels, wondering what heading would be most appropriate for documents that he officially didn't have in the first place. The imp of the perverse drew his attention to the round file with attached shredder.

He eliminated the transcript first; an empty gesture, as he was under surveillance and there was undoubtedly a dossier on him somewhere containing additional copies, along with everything else that could be potentially used against him. Piette surmised his superiors intended to control him with paranoia, selectively exposing evidence of their monitoring, but he wasn't going to let that bother him. After the suspicious death of Gramis Solidor, he lost all interest in martial politics, instead investing himself in ensuring the efficiency and safety of his divisions.

This gave him pause before discarding the covert mission briefing.

It was not lack of confidence behind his caution concerning the assignment. Joan and her crew logged dozens of supply missions supporting the Galtean Suppression Army. Standard protocol was to add four destroyers to her unit as escort, land at key secured locations where ground units were waiting, who would then unload and distribute materiel throughout the theatre. But officially they never entered Nabridian airspace.

And there was the troubling manner in which the tasking was dropped in his lap. He hoped this was merely posturing, Zecht enjoying his newfound authority.

He flippped through to the summaries and time-tables. They ordered an ammunition drop mere miles from Nabudis, where Rozzarian air defenses were more organized. Only two strike fighters were to accompany her, and they were to approach over the Salikawood, low and under radar. More interesting was that the task order never mentioned the operation it clearly meant to support: Galtean Squall— a secret first strike that promised decisive control of Nabudis, and a subject on the tip of every Judge's tongue.

Using the staple remover from his desk, he detached a folded map from the back of the packet, and spread it out on his desk to study. The elevation map showed the planned flight path; west from Port-on-Nebras, north along the coast, and back east across Cape Uahuk and the Salikawood for the final approach. Right before contact it crossed into a marked NFZ; this is where low altitude might give them an advantage, as terrain would mask their approach until the were seconds from the secured landing site, allowing them to evade detection of Rozarrian anti-air defenses further downrange.

Piette leaned forward, rubbing his eyes. Not as risky as his initial impression. But an odd flight-plan to file, one Joan would surely modify in flight to save fuel and to leave more flex time considering the narrow docking windows...

"Faram," he said, slamming his fists on his desk once, then twice. Piette tore through the file cabinet, tossing folders onto the ground, frantically searching for the scouting reports that previously were a distraction to be shoved anywhere there was room.

Ten minutes and ten papercuts later, he held three candidate troop movement reports. Quickly he sketched out boundaries and marked potential Rozzarian flank locations directly on the flight plan. Pushpins marked waypoints, digging into unrelated documents and the wood veneer of the desk beneath. He detached the strap to his scabbard and draped it according to the marked path. After removing pins corresponding to all but the three most important waypoints, he gently pulled the strap taut from both ends. As he pulled, the canvas passed over areas he penciled in earlier at two separate points along the route.

"Bastards," Piette breathed.

* * *

**Received:** (mogmail invoked from network); 14 Spr 704 18:00:14 -0000  
**Date:** Sat, 14 Spr 704 12:35:58 -0700  
**From:** Joan Kenroh «jkenroh!mail.pon.arch»  
**To:** Firmus Piette «fpiette!ferrinas.arch»  
**Subject:** Re: Your upcoming "trip" 

/ On 9 Spr 704, Firmus Piette «fpiette!ferrinas.arch» wrote:  
/ You're going to get some special orders by fax next week, just a heads up.  
/  
/ On 12 Spr 704, Joan Kenroh «jkenroh!mail.pon.arch» wrote:  
/ just got them this morning in fact, thanks, made sure to  
/ keep my eye out for it, looks interesting  
/ -me  
/  
/ On 13 Spr 704, Firmus Piette «fpiette!ferrinas.arch» wrote:  
/ If I were you, I would feel much better about it if you split the load  
/ into at least two trips, considering the terrain and conditions

I was already thinking 2 or maybe 3 if we can afford it,  
i never run it at more than two thirds capacity if it can be helped.

/ And you should pick a drop point that isn't so far downrange, make  
/ those damned supply line units do their fucking jobs

I appreciate your concern, but you neednt worry so much.

-me

* * *

- 15 Spr 704 VE, 0900 hours 

"Okay, let's take her down close to the deck," Joan announced to the bridge. Enabling the intercom she added: "I need everyone to prepare for a hot touchdown in twenty minutes, and we have another run to fit in this morning, so the clock is against us." She glanced impatiently at the radar console, which was missing its occupant.

"Aye, skipper," replied Krieger, disabling the autopilot. He radioed ahead to the lawn darts, telling them to back off to a higher altitude. Warrant Officer Bah'Ahlena winked at Krieger (who returned the gesture) and strapped herself in front of the terrain console. Noticing the missing radar technician, she brought up his screens as well, much to Joan's relief.

With a sparse series of hand movements, Joan used the manual control surfaces to bring the _Eisenwolk_ close enough to the Salikawood canopy that they could see the airship's shadow flitting through treetops in the morning light. Krieger continued feeding her course corrections that shaved significant time from their run, while the bangaa announced upcoming terrain features. Periodically the ground approach alarm would sound, and Bah'Ahlena would cancel it. She smiled apologetically at Joan.

"Lieutenant, that's something we should look into figuring out an override for, eh?" she suggested. Krieger didn't answer. She was about to repeat herself when a second, more frantic alarm sounded.

"Look alive, I think we've got someone intersectin' our flight path, ACAS jis' confirmed it," he shouted. Both Joan and Bah'Ahlena started asking questions at the same time, an alert at such a low altitude was very strange. Krieger was already on the radio.

"Hello? This is Tonberry-Helga-XZone one-three-eight, do you copy?" Silence.

Krieger tried again. "This is Tonberry-Helga-XZone one–"

"We've got a 50 foot ridgeline coming up in twenty seconds," Bah'Ahlena interrupted him.

"How many 'till intercept with our mystery ship?" Joan asked.

"Thirty... twenty-eight... twenty-five..." Krieger was counting down the seconds, his radio contact still not hailed by the interloper.

"Hold on, guys," Joan exhaled. She pulled the hurtling mass into a sudden climb, the glossair rings reacting with a deafening whine. The ground dropped away rapidly, the ridgeline only a wrinkle in the surface of the forest.

"eightteen... fifteen... hey, the intercept condition is gone. Looks like we gave that fairy enough ceiling," Krieger noted derisively. Joan leveled out the flight controls and adjusted the heading slightly, so she could descend back to operational altitude without swapping paint with some stealthy hotshot. The two escort fighters loomed into view ahead and slightly above the craft.

"What are you guys doing up here with us?" radioed one of the escorts, just noticing their reappearence behind them.

"We got lonely, _Asura_, but we're on our way back down. Nearly had us a situation," Krieger replied. Meanwhile the radar technician returned to his station on the bridge, now that it was safe to move around again.

"Yeah, the situation is you think it's a good idea to—" and then static. Bah'Ahlena pointed in horror at the sky where the _Asura _had been, replaced by a Ivalice-ward trail of smoke. Red lights engulfed the bridge, without an additional alarm or klaxon. Joan whipped her head around to the Warrant Officer, looking for confirmation of what she already feared.

"We've been painted!" the bangaa yelled. "Bogies in pursuit, two air launches detected!"

"Gods, they were using ACAS beacons to bait us," Joan cursed. She flipped on the intercom again. "All hands prepare for evasive manuvers!"

She didn't wait for her remaining escort to engage them, instead throwing the vessel into a steeply banked turn. With a yelp, the still unseated radar technician was thrown into a bulkhead. Joan groaned; he presented an unwelcome distraction. She could use the deceptive performance envelope of the craft to her advantage, leading her pursuers into an obstacle, or doubling back upon them and engaging them with firepower. But such feats required concentration.

An explosion rocked the vessel as it struggled to shake the interlopers. "Shit!" Krieger bellowed.

"That wasn't a direct hit." Joan commeneted, and opened the throttle on the turbojets. "Dump the excess power from the glossair rings into the afterburner compressors," she commanded Bah'Ahlena. The Warrant Officers' long fingers flickered across the console; immediately the ship dropped a few hundred feet only to be rocketed violently upwards at a sickening angle, the vessel groaning with metallic protest under the sudden acceleration and stress.

To the misfortune of crew and cargo that was not securely fastened, Joan pulled the craft into a nearly vertical trajectory, followed by a combination pitch and roll to level out while completing a full 180. Near the peak of the arc, they caught a glimpse of one attacking clipper pursued across their field of vision by their remaining escort, forward cannons blazing.

"Find that other contact, and open fire with the battery," Joan said. On cue, red light bathed the bridge once more.

"Lock-on detected, preparing to fire on—", but before Bah'Ahlena could implement countermeasures, the _Eisenwolk_ shuddered violently with a deafening explosion that reverberated within the hull. An irritatingly calm recorded voice loop announced: "Cargo area breach starboard."

"That fucker hit the starboard cargo door and turrets! Structural integrity at 80 percent," Krieger yelled over the racket of the bridge. Additional alarms added to the cacophony. "Gods! Two glossair rings just shut down."

The loss of power was immediately noticeable, as the ship began to lurch and roll towards port. Joan grappled the manual controls to divert power to the remaining rings from the thrusters, trying to keep the vessel out of a spiral. "Jettison the cargo! Jettison the cargo!" she screamed.

"I can't! It won't let me open the cargo doors after a hull breach," noted Krieger helplessly. Another missile scored a hit on the port side, causing the ship to shudder. "Four glossair rings down, integrity at 50!"

_Eisenwolk _was underpowered with only 2 of its 6 power-plants online and the incumbent cargo, even at half capacity. Joan struggled to maintain control as they rapidly lost altitude. The ground approach alarm sounded from Bah'Ahlena's console.

"Six seconds," she noted vacantly. Bah'Ahlena and the lieutenant exchanged a significant look. The helpless commander watched as the bangaa's eyes narrowed on Krieger gleaming with fear, her snout mouthing "I", then "love", and at that point time seemed to slow down, as if to force Joan to drink in the futility of it all.

But Joan didn't care for it. She roared in anger and drove all remaining power back into thrusters, causing the vessel to pitch backwards into a stall. A symphony of alarms, the metallic death throes of her ship, and her crews screams merged into an all-encompassing wall of noise.

Everything went black.

* * *

- 15 Spr 704 VE??? hours 

And it remained black when she woke up.

_That's because you've got your eyes closed._

She opened them. It was still black.

_Oh dear, commander, look at you. On your back again crammed into who knows where. You know better than to get involved with soldiers._

Memories of the crash lingered beneath the surface of her consciousness, flashes of terror, lingering echoes of rending metal.

_You're losing it. Was that a dream? Where am I?_

Her sense of smell returned first. Offensive, it came in waves as a breeze shifted, a disturbing mix of sweet naptha and irritating soot.

_Burning kerosene._..

What she was starting up at wasn't just black, but tinged in a dancing orange that seemed to light it from beneath and off to her left. She had thought it some optical illusion.

_Oh no. No no no._

No illusion, but a billowing cloud of acrimonious smoke from the wreckage, lit by the fires from whence it emanated. It covered the sky above her, a death shroud.

Her sense of hearing returned subsequently. As she shook her head in disbelief, she realized those imagined echoes were real sounds; the modulation implied they came from the top of the embankment at which foot she lay. She could make out the whine of a surviving glossair ring spinning up and down aimlessly, robbed of its control system. Periodically it was pierced by the report of exploding ordinance, the remnants of her cargo. Crackles of electrical systems arcing were less frequent, but powerful enough to illuminate the smoke eerily from beneath. And there was the dull roar of burning jet fuel which seemed to come from everywhere at once. Panic rose along with the bile in the back of her throat.

_Calm down, now. If you throw up like this, you'll choke to death before you roast. Besides, the sound is just traveling through the ground directly into your head. You're not going to burn alive._

Now she was aware of the pain which enveloped her body. Fearfully she titled her chin forward and peered down at her feet, willing any toe to wriggle. Thankfully they all did, and she dropped her head back down to the crumpled grass. The rocks and debris beneath her torso were painful, and the sound of the fire filling her head was disconcerting, so she slowly pulled her elbows in by her shoulders and gingerly sat up. She winced with a sudden flash of pain. Breathing in sharply, the pain redoubled, and her vision swam.

_Broken ribs, of course. Wonderful._

Attenuating her breathing, the searing in her chest diminished, and she could take in her surroundings. The pervasive sound of the inferno was assuredly drifting down the slope. She reckoned herself farther from the wreckage than her initial estimate. Leaning her head on her left shoulder she peered at the horizon in the other direction, where the smoke gave way to a promising cleft of daylight. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but it appeared as if survivors might have left her there, evidenced by trampled grasses leading from her prone form out and away from the smoke. Glancing down, she regarded the unnatural angle of her forearm with bemusement.

_Think of someplace nice, think of someplace nice, think of someplace nice..._

A sickening pop later, and her humerus slipped back into her shoulder, the fingers of her free hand leaving ashen imprints on her wrist.

_No mana, which means no white magic, and no curative items. Double wonderful.  
_

The most that could be done was to use the First Aid technique, which helped a little. She was grateful the pain in her chest diminished, as it hurt to breathe. Somehow she was able to stand up, an impressive feat considering she discovered a sprained ankle in the process. Carefully she made her way to the side of the embankment. She examined it for pockets of clay and grass in the rocky face that might make it possible to scale. What she hoped to accomplish by doing so, she hadn't figured out yet, and pressed on for lack of other ideas. Her first attempt to ascend the ridge ended quickly, as her shoulder would not cooperate. She sat with her back against the hillside and stretched the sore tendons. And as she sat, she noticed a new sound (_no, sensation_) that was familiar but out of place against the din of the wreckage.

_It's **that **fucking nonsense again. No way… _

_Could the smoke have attracted an entite? This day just keeps getting more and more wonderful, why_—

The world became brilliantly and disorientingly white, except for the sky where it met the horizon. She glimpsed there a bizarre shade of violet before reflexively closing her eyes. Her hands shot to the bases of her ears and squeezed them closed despite the lack of sound to muffle. Nothing could block out the chaotic scream of exploding mist resonating within, and she feared her brains would liquify and leak out. Seconds later the shock wave approached, felt first through the ground, which prompted her to press her hands tighter, and then the thermal wash was upon her. She was thrown forward bodily and lost consciousness once more.

* * *

- 1? Spr 704 VE ??? hours 

"KWEH! KWEH!"

_Go away._

"Kweh? Kweh. KWEEH!"

She moaned in protest. "Go away you damned bird. I don't have anything." She lay on her side, in a fetal position, some yards from where she woke up previously. It was already night, but this was a guess. A mist-infused smog covered everything, and the main source of light was now the glow of burning _Eisenwolk _that had been thrown down the embankment by the mysterious blast. She thanked her lucky constellation the debris field spread to the north and not on top of her.

_How long have I been out?_

She stared at the chocobo which loomed over her, as if it might respond to her mental inquiry.  
"Kweh," it warbled, leaned in, and nuzzled her face.

_On any other day I could kill you and use your carcass for a tent.  
_

Undeterred, the black-feathered beast persisted in getting her attention. With an exhausted sigh, she raised a sore arm and stroked its neck. In response, it kneeled down.

"You've got to be kidding me," she groaned. "I hope you know what you're doing." She rolled over onto her stomach, and pulled herself onto all fours. The chocobo was incredibly patient as she dragged herself onto its broad back, holding onto its neck with interlocked hands.

"Kweh," it responded confidently, and rose up with her limp body. She buried her head into its feathers, relishing in the softness and warmth. Her ribs still hurt so she squirmed further up the beasts' neck, putting more weight on her pelvis. It sensed she was now comfortable enough to ride, and it slowly made its way between debris and rocks strewn about, headed for the steppes that would lead back to the Nebras river.

"Get me out of this damned place," Fran asked quietly.

* * *

**Author's Note cont'd**  
In case you are confused after reading this (and I'm sure you are):  
» Yes, Joan Kenroh is Fran's alias. Did we forget?  
» Yes, she just experienced the tragedy at Nabudis firsthand.  
» No, her ship didn't explode.  
» No, her ship wasn't carrying the Midlight Shard.  
» Yes, her ship was a diversion designed to draw out Rozzarian air defenses, allowing Zecht to follow unmolested in order to test and observe the Nethicite's power.  
» No, Piette didn't know why Fran was being used as a decoy.  
» _Your advertisement here! Call for details. _


	7. Rabbit Redux

**Author's Note:**

Oh my. And I was debating whether I would write this chapter at all. Stepping back, I now think it's the best one thus far. It demanded to be written. The ideas came to me this morning on my way to work, and I've been hammering this out ever since I got home, unable to do anything but.

I switched voices here, because now we're nearing the storyline (-18 months) and entering familiar territory. I'm channeling a bit of John Updike with the switch to present tense and abuse of a stream-of-consciousness writing style. Thus the title of the chapter.

Standard boilerplates apply, please contact the author for details if you can't figure it out. As always, remember your mantra. Review. Review. Review!

**Chapter 6 - Rabbit Redux**

–Autumn, 704 VE

The skin itches where the leather wraps around her shin. Fran shifts the weight of the pack full of pelts to the opposite shoulder, and leans over to rub the sand out from between the shin-guard and her leg. To many the ornamental armor is base and scandalous and they avoid eye contact– to the more worldly they incorrectly conclude she just stumbled out of the Golmore, eyes squinting– to the few Imperials who have glimpsed her so clad it would be a wet dream made real, or perhaps a case of déjà vu– to the Moogle artisan it is his finest handiwork– and to Fran... she shakes away the memory. It's mid-morning and the sky over the Westersand is a clear, vibrant blue, the harsh sun conveniently obscured by steep canyon walls, and she won't dwell on such things.

"Rather pleasant in the autumn when the winds are calm," she remarks to no one in particular.

Presently she stumbles upon an air anchor where the rift valley is wider. She peers up the cable looking for its owner, and the dividing line between shadow and sunlight is visible on it some distance above, but the end seems tethered to the sky itself. Considering that it may be too high above to be visible, she estimates the cable itself would weigh more than most airships at that distance. She laughs briefly at such preposterousness.

_It must be cloaked. I wonder if this is the work of Moogles or of Draklor?_

But she does not stay long to ponder this intriguing technology (aside from throwing a stone skywards in the off-chance it was low enough to hit; it was not). It will be hot later, and she is still a few hours from Rabanastre where she intends to lighten her load.

She is still throwing backward glances, hoping to catch some visual anomaly caused by such experimental technology, when she hears the distinct report of an Altair some distance ahead. Fran wonders whether the firearm's owner and the anchor's owner might be one and the same. A few minutes worth of quiet progress later, and another cluster of shots drifts towards her ears. Fran has the benefit of retracing her steps through the Westersand whence earlier she cleared of wolves and cockatrice, but this traveler is less fortunate, and his are the stragglers that hide in other corners of the windswept maze.

She abandons the hope of overtaking her path-displaced companion when no further sounds of gunfire occur and half an hour passes. Around the midway point of her trek back into town, she hears the far-off cry of an alpha wolf, daring to return with his pack to areas she chased them from earlier. From her opposite shoulder she produced her longbow and holds it loosely.

Fran was hesitant to start up with the bow again after spending weeks recuperating from the accident some months ago. She hadn't used it since she left the foreign legion, and made little regular use of other weapons either. But she knew full well the longer she went without practice, the harder it would be to get the strength back in her upper body. The first month was torture on her right shoulder, and she even considered switching draw hands, but by the third the arrows flew as effortlessly as if she never left the wood warders. She smiles, mildly surprised to find two dead cockatrices at the bottom of a dune; she doesn't remember dispatching them while lost in thought seconds ago, but they are full of her arrows.

There are three unwritten rules of game hunters. The first of these is: kill only to poach or in self-defense. Second is to never take unclaimed loot you did not acquire yourself. The third and most important was also the least clear. Be fair to your fellow entrepreneur. What this amounted to was: "Don't dump fifty prime pelts in the bazaar early in the morning, or the rest of us won't get squat for our hauls." Not as succinct an expression, but more to the point. Fran considers each of these maxims in turn as she cautiously advanced.

Game hunters were an odd bunch. They fancied themselves an Ivalice-wide brotherhood of sorts, even if they weren't as organized as mark hunters with their clans and guilds. And as such, there was resentment when their own yearned for higher aspirations, plowing through packs of foes, gaining experience with which they might become more proficient and take on higher visibility targets. The oft-used excuse was that such activities would endanger loot-stock populations, but as Fran put a few well-placed arrows through regrouping wolves, she knew this to be nonsense. She ignored the pelts but kept the fire stones they left behind; of the former she had plenty, but the latter were easily pocketed.

She considers the second rule a double standard. She is leaving behind what she cannot take with her, but how could one fault the next person who comes along from taking advantage of her surplus? After all, according to the first rule, if one did not have to even engage a serpent to have his scales, would this not be a greater good? For a brotherhood, the virtue of cooperation is markedly missing. Working in a team never came naturally to Fran, but after floating through two clans and the military, she appreciated that with coordinated effort great (or abominable) things might be achieved.

"But who am I to judge?" she asks under her breath, working with her dagger to claim a prime pelt from an already-dead rare specimen that nearly tripped her. It will not fit in her pack, so she discards a bundle of feathers to make room. As she folds it, she notices two bullet holes in the tuft of the neck. The downy fur is scorched and smells of gunpowder; the bitch must have been a rough playmate for her earlier desert companion.

It is still not yet noon, and the western gate of Rabanastre is now in sight. Her pace quickens, ignoring sleeping cactrots and avoiding the well-known haunts of the weaker canines here. Early yet in the trading day, Fran hopes to earn enough to exchange for the last bazaar good she needs to complete her checklist. With that out of the way, she'll be able to pick up the toy she's planned on acquiring for weeks. There's no reason to be fair to your fellow entrepreneur if you no longer compete with them for the same prize, she reasoned.

She gently bit her lower lip with anticipation.

No one waiting in line at the gate is happy to see her. Perhaps it was her quickly acquired reputation for not playing by the rules. It did not help that everyone was already on edge in Dalmasca considering recent developments in Hume politics, and the continuous presence of the Archadian military compounded the resentful atmosphere. She stuck out like a sore thumb by appearance alone, and her attitude was not appreciated in an community of increasing conformity, whether it was in silent unity against von Rosenburg and House Solidor, or by not attracting attention to ones company in face of irritable judges. Or perhaps it was the smell of decaying flesh that stuck to the pelts she carried.

In any case, she had every right to be as mad at her former countrymen as the citizens of Dalmasca; alas she could never tell anyone why, lest she compromise herself and eventually be found out. Joan Kenroh: deserter and traitor. Instead it was always scoffs and dirty looks. "Oh no," they would say, "_you_ wouldn't understand, you're not from here anyway, this isn't your fight." And what of it? Fran nearly joined the Dalmascan rebels out of spite, but thought better of it. She wouldn't be satisfied unless she was given some responsibility, and that was unlikely.

A Bangaa on chocobo and a foot soldier were getting into a row at the gate, much to the protest of some further ahead in line. Ivalice was changing, indeed. She desired to play a part in it, but her experience thus far was not what she had imagined. _I will make my mark in my own way._

Self-examination and musings of Galtean social interactions are little comfort to Fran as she waits to be admitted into West Gate. She furrows her brow and purses her lips, as she is wont to do when she can no longer hide her displeasure beneath that mythical veil of Vieran impassivity. What little of that trait she had was shed long ago before she left the wood, and now she must practice at it. When dealing with anyone in town, no one wants anything to do with your troubles, and transactions go more smoothly when you can pretend to care about their own.

In any case she preferred not spend any more time in this place than she needed to; this lent a continual air of urgency to her presence in town. Most nights she retreated to the little villages on the Nebras. They were a place of gathering when she was in clan Atma, they were a relaxing excursion when she had leave from the barracks, and they were a godsend when she needed a healer who didn't ask questions after her tumble from a wild chocobo into the middle of camp.

More importantly, the satellite community functioned as a makeshift bank. Without Archadian citizenship she could no longer partake in financial instruments the gentry enjoyed, IOUs only held weight if she had a long-standing positive reputation (_hah_), and barter was a fickle thing subject to the whims of the bazaar. But the little towns were watering post to all manner of caravans and couriers with which Fran was most familiar from a prior life, and she curried favor with them. In exchange for information– shortcuts and optimal stopover routes that she could recite from memory, news of recent feybeast sightings, warnings of bandit activity –they could fetch or ferry anything she wished with a reliability surpassing any shmuck with a stall in the Muthruu. And she liked to keep her gil and precious stones in a jar made anonymous by a pile of disused pottery behind the elder's hut. No plucky street urchins there to pickpocket you.

_And those plucky street urchins follow you like the Lorelei when you drop hints to said caravans' arrival times. Perhaps I should stop playing both sides of the fence and just become an actuary; they benefit no matter what..._

Her thoughts are interrupted by a second particularly loud exchange to her immediate left upon the Aerodome steps. She is at first annoyed by the outburst, then amused by the queer sight: a tall, markedly handsome man with blonde hair and an unusual choice of shirt is arguing with a diminutive Nu Mou, comically separated by the stack of journals he carries. She catches a few words that might be proper nouns: "Balthier" and "Strahl". She laughs quietly, the names are plucked straight from a play for spoiled Archadian bastards. And the tall one (Balthier?) seems to be losing, his hands are now in his hair, slicking it back while he comes up with a retort— and none is coming! The little harbormaster pitters back into the darkness of the antechamber. Deflated, 'Balthier' (_oh gods that's rich_) turns on his heel and strides purposefully back out towards the Westersand, reaching for an Altair which was strapped across back. She blinks and wipes her eyes, just to make sure she hadn't mistaken it for a Sirius.

Fran finds herself watching his head disappear behind a sand dune when she realizes the line has moved, and nature abhors a vacuum. She smiles meekly at the annoyed enqueued behind her and closes the gap. _So **that** is the kind of mummer they're allowing to test pilot nowadays? Now I've seen everything. So much so that I'm seeing them twice; I know I've seen that guy before._

* * *

Anyplace in Lowtown would have been less shady than the back alley behind the Sandsea. But her contact insisted she meet them there with the odd cache of items they requested. Someteen broken staffs, half as many sickle cell blades, and fire crystals? She'd rather not know the intended purpose. And who was this 'them'? The intonation suggested some subversive element, the rebels perhaps, and to be safe she disguised herself. Ears carefully folded back and tied with ribbons into her hair, nails trimmed, a simple work smock and sandals, all tucked under a worn cloak to hide her memorable hair and face. 

_Zodiark, it's hot. How do Rabanstreans stand any clothes at all in the summer?_

As time dragged along while she made her way through the twisted labyrinth, she regrets the layers of excess clothing. After all, everything that Bangaa told her was framed with conspiracy and paranoia, even while exchanging simple pleasantries. "What do you mean you think it's going to rain?" he had shrieked, and all within earshot in the Muthruu tensed up, conversations derailed. And he had this nervous tendancy to look about his person in guileless gestures as though he was tracking a flying insect by sound. Against her better judgement, she asked him if he knew anything about a man calling himself 'Balthier'. Of course he did, and she was treated to a drawn out account of fantastically-daring-yet-noble pirating deeds which she found suspiciously similar to the first and second acts of the eponymous play. But the story diverged in the third act, and there she listened more closely.

She wasn't sure how much of it could be believed considering the source, but she was pretty sure two of claims were meritable. He had commandeered an appropriately fantastic airship, and he was looking for a partner.

_What do you care?, _she asks herself as she rounds the dark final corner of the forgotten backstreet. _He couldn't even win an argument against a stack of books. So what if he looks like an older Ffamran?_

This thought causes her to stop midstride. But the bag she carries is heavy, and the heat of the afternoon is sweltering even in the shade, so she quickly abandons this internal line of inquiry. There were more pressing matters at hand.

Fran climbs down a short flight of stairs that recess into the pavement and approached the door. She hesitates briefly before knocking as there is an argument going on inside; no answer comes but the shouting match continues unabated. After a few minutes the smell of stale beer, urine, and vomit wears her patience, and she knocks a second time more loudly.

The door opens suddenly to reveal a large, plain-faced man with short black hair. His cheeks are red and his breath audible. "What the fuck do you want?!"

"I'm supposed to give you these—" Fran produced the bag from under her cloak. The man ignores it and peers at her hood, straining to glimpse her face.

"Who beck– «_cough_» who's that at the door?" a woman asks quietly inside. Her accent strikes Fran as peculiar, as if she was an educated thespian, researching the part of a tavern worker for her next play.

"Someone is trying to sell us a sack of gods know what. Did you know about this too?" From his build and mannerisms, she knew this friendly fellow had done his stint in the military as well. Recently.

"I had it set up. She's okay, please let her come inside."

Fran quietly made her way to a table in the middle of the room. Maps or perhaps blueprints coverd it; she couldn't tell, as the black-haired man was hastily gathering them up while throwing her suspicious glances. She put the bag and the checklist down on the table.

The man left, while the woman stayed in the corner by the door to the adjacent room, purposefully far enough from the light hanging over the table that her face stayed unlit. Here they had something in common. She was dressed in typical Dalmascan garb, though she seemed to have something for fuchsia.

"Let's keep this short," she begins, in that forced colloquial tone, "I trust you have everything we asked for, or you wouldn't have wasted your time to come here. What you want is in the Aerodome, bay 15, under the name of Amalia." Fran wondered briefly whether her accent sounded that odd those first few years as a caravan rider.

In a show of good faith, Fran takes a moment to empty out the sack and segregate its contents for her, laying them out so the woman could see them clearly from the doorway. She smiles, Fran notices, her teeth moderately visible in the indirect light.

"Thank you for this. Enjoy it, but be careful," the woman adds, her hands now on her hips.

_Odd young girl._ Fran took her leave and carefully closed the back door. As soon as the latch clicked the voices began again; not quite so loud as before but she supposes they would be if she eavesdropped long enough. _Mixed up in the wrong sort of thing..._

Upon emerging from the alley into the bustle of East End, Fran throws back her hood, frees her ears, and lets her hair down. She makes her way south with a spring in her step, barely able to contain her glee.

* * *

"And here we are, miss, uh, Amalia." The Nu Mou who won the argument earlier peered up at her over his glasses, thoroughly unimpressed. He unlocks the double-leaved hangar door with a wave of his hand; the sections retracting soundlessly, a stenciled '15' thereupon becoming '1' and '5', and presently they were inside the man-made cavern with optional sunroof. 

Her new hoverbike looked out of place, moored comically to a palette jack, as if it was cargo left behind by some substantial vessel. But she doesn't mind the juxtaposition; it was her new baby and she started bonding while it was just specs on paper, long before she lay eyes upon it. Lithe but sturdy, it was a respectable gunmetal gray molded into an aggressive shape; a single glossair ring domainated the nose and two crimson upholstered seats fell in line behind it. Fran smiles as she entertains the idea to practice flying it indoors, being so dwarfed by the size of the hangar bay. She turns to jokingly ask the harbormaster if he'll permit her to do so, but is surprised when she can't find him, then reminding herself he's one third her height.

Giddy and unable to remember the question she wanted to ask, she merely glances down at him. He's busied himself with a clipboard. Gazing at the hoverbike amidst the cavernous hanger again, she considers how the Nu Mou and Fran would be just as odd to see side by side. And for that matter so had been he and Balthier! Or even Balthier and she. The bike did have room for two.

_Where the hell did that come from?_

A cough floats up from below her, and she is surprised to find him now standing in front of her, holding up a clipboard with dangling pen. Fran suppresses an embarrased grin and takes it from him. She signs an illegible scribble at the bottom of the page, making the transaction official enough. He takes them from her, and she strides over to her new beau.

"Ahem. You'll need to come back for that in an hour. That's an unregisterable vehicle, so it has to go through customs, besides it won't be able to take off through the roof. It will be waiting for you outside West Gate."

Fran frowns, if briefly. "Fine. One hour."

* * *

The feet seem to have a mind of their own, and they've taken her back to the Sandsea. She enters through the front door this time. 

The mouth seems to have a mind of its own, and it orders brandy of serpentwine. She drinks it from a shot glass this time.

The ears seem to have a mind of their own, and they alert her to the presence of a novel, cryptic notice on the board. She considers hunting a challenging mark this time.

The nose seems to have a mind of its own, and she finds herself in front of the notice board. She takes down the bill, claiming it before other would-be adventurers this time.

The eyes seem to have a mind of their own, and she finds herself skipping to the bottom.

An illegible signature, and below that, a singular printed name: Balthier.

* * *

Sand is whipping up into a wake behind Fran as she speeds across the open plateaus of the Estersand. The painted walls of encircling rock become a colorful blur if she regards them from the corner of her eye. Never has she felt so free in her long life. 

And never has she been so apprehensive. She has little more than a week before she is supposed to meet this Balthier, and she has a long list of preparations. _So much to do, so much to do, but it could be worse. I could be huffing it and kicking away cactrots._

Fran grins so widely bugs might chip her teeth, and she covers her mouth this time.


End file.
